


Broken Things

by azurecuisine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Demon Blood, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Sam, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Incest, M/M, Mark of Cain, Minor Castiel/Sam Winchester, Rape/Non-con Elements, Season/Series 10 Spoilers, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9907877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azurecuisine/pseuds/azurecuisine
Summary: Dean’s been breaking.  Sam broke a long time ago.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So… this happened. I think I’m in a bit of a dark place right now. This is not a nice fic.
> 
> AU from some point in season 10 through the end of season 10.

“Fuck, Sam, I’m not a damn alcoholic.”

That one is almost constant, although Sam never says a thing, not even when he walks into the dark library and thinks it’s Dad back from the dead.

“Just taking the edge off.”

Another favorite, in near constant rotation. Sam whispers the words along with Dean every time his brother pours whiskey into his coffee, cracks open a beer at breakfast. Takes a swig from Bobby’s flask when they’re going to interview a witness.

“I can handle myself, Sam, always have.”

There’s a hard edge to that one, the _'just like you never have'_ unspoken but not unheard.

“I _said_ shaddup, Sammy.”

Angry, and Sam can’t stop dreaming of running through a concrete maze from his brother wielding a hammer and much more dangerous eyes.

“Have you always been this annoying? It’s just a couple of beers for chrissake.”

More variations on the same tired theme: Sam the annoyance, Sam the disappointment, Sam the anchor that drags him down into the darkest depths, and Sam wants to run and hide but he can’t leave.

“For fuck’s sake, can’t you stop nagging at me for half a minute? Fucking bitch.”

Sam can’t stand this one, and stays silent for weeks whenever Dean uses it, twists the words that have always meant _'I love you'_ into _'I hate you so much.'_

“So what if I am drunk? It’s whiskey, not fucking _demon blood,_ so back the fuck off, Sam.”

This is the one that breaks him, sends his fist into Dean’s jaw, but the red that blossoms across Dean’s cheek shocks Sam out of his anger.

“Dean…” Sam stops, not sure what to say.

Dean spits, and he must have bitten his cheek or tongue because blood and saliva are mingled on the floor. He looks at Sam, eyes narrowed, then laughs – short, harsh, humorless. “Making me bleed for you, Sammy?” He tips back his head, draining the bottle in his hand.

Sam winces when the empty bottle flies past his head, shattering against the wall behind him.

Dean opens a fresh bottle and drinks long and deep. He advances on Sam, smiles when Sam backs into the wall, glass crunching under his feet.

“Think my blood has enough demon for you?”

“You’re drunk.” Sam’s voice is quiet, barely audible.

Dean laughs. “So you get a drink with your fix.” His voice goes low, loses the angry growl, turns to a purr. “You like that, Sammy? Getting a little extra when you take a hit?”

He’s toe-to-toe with Sam, hand braced on the wall beside Sam’s shoulders, and Sam forgets to breathe. Dean leans up and presses his lips to Sam’s. It’s not a kiss, just Dean’s mouth sealed against Sam’s and Dean’s blood flooding Sam’s mouth, hot and metallic and electrifying and _oh God, there is demon in it, just a bit._

Sam whimpers, chases Dean’s mouth when he pulls away, and then pain explodes in his head as he’s slammed back into the wall hard enough that his skull bounces on impact. He slides down, sits in shards of a broken bottle and broken trust, and stares up at harsh green eyes.

“Junkie.”

And Dean is gone, taking his fresh bottle to some other corner of the bunker but there are bottles left and an entire liquor cabinet of strange colors in crystal decanters.

Minutes later, or possibly hours, Sam stumbles into Dean’s room with a half-empty bottle of blue liquor that tastes like violets and kicks like a mule. He stands – sways – in the doorway, and Dean looks him up and down, taking in the mussed hair, unfocused eyes, shirt hanging open over a wide expanse of honey-gold skin and taut muscles.

Dean smiles. “Hey, Sammy, you ever try demon cum?”

***

Sam wakes up in an instant, as always, aching all over, head spinning. Something itchy is dried across his face and his head is tender and sore. He lies still in the tangle of sheets and blankets, eyes shut tight and head resting on something warm, and focuses on not throwing up.

The warmth beneath him shifts, and he swallows hard, trying to keep his stomach down. His throat throbs, sore and raw, and he groans at the pain. His mouth tastes horrible – bitter and metallic layered over and under thick, sweet liquor, the sulfur taint running through it all like a lightning-hot thread, filling him with disgust and a hunger he’d thought was gone.

Sam’s stomach lurches and he barely manages to pull himself off the bed, off his brother, to hang his head over the toilet and retch, expelling waves of blue vomit until there’s nothing left. He stays kneeling, forehead resting on his arm, muscles cramping as his body tries to bring up more but there’s nothing left and he’s empty, empty. Cool hands brush over his neck and “Dean?”

“… No.” The voice is low and gravelly. “I brought you breakfast.”

Sam looks at the plate – a rubbery mound of yellow eggs, globs of melted cheese mixed through, sausage and bacon sitting in a puddle of congealing grease, and he heaves again, manages to bring up nothing because there’s nothing left, but the smell of fat and meat and the eggs that make him think of sulfur…

Cas rubs his back, strokes his hair, says, “I am not sure how to help you,” and it’s ridiculous and Sam laughs through the pain of aching muscles.

“It’s fine, Cas. Dean needs greasy food for hangovers–” _(except Dean doesn’t get hangovers since the Mark)_ “–but I usually just have toast. Or crackers. Dry.”

“This is just a hangover?”

Sam pushes himself up off the floor, leans against the sink while the room spins around him.

“Well, it’s the start of a big one. And I’m still a bit drunk. Bad combination.” Sam sighs, feels his skin sticking to itself, and vomit in his hair. “I really need a shower.”

Sam waits for the angel to leave before peeling off his jeans, ignores the mess inside and out. He steps into the shower and turns it on, stands under the steaming water and lets it pound over him, and he pretends that it’s just the shower wetting his cheeks. He stands under the spray until the water goes cold.

There’s a plate of toast sitting on clean, folded clothes set beside the sink.

***

“Fuck, Sam, I’m not a damn alcoholic.”

Except Sam didn’t say anything, hasn’t looked at Dean for weeks, leaves any room he enters.

“Not like I’m drinking demon blood.”

But that doesn’t keep Dean from following him, begging for a fight.

“Just taking the edge off.”

But the last fight was bad, destroyed them both even if Dean hasn’t realized it yet, so Sam has to keep running away. Even if it’s impossible to get away from Dean now, on the hunt, staying in a crappy room with too-small beds and bad TV. The bunker is better, easier, full of books and artifacts and Sam can lose himself in the archives and Dean stays in his room with Netflix and whiskey, and Sam doesn’t have to think about how much Dean tastes like demons.

 _He’s human, I cured him, it’s fine,_ but it’s not, and Sam wants to taste him again.

Dean’s drinking another beer, lips wrapped around the neck of the bottle like Sam’s lips wrapped around Dean, and his eyes follow Sam around the room with a dangerous glint and Sam runs.

***

“The nice thing about crappy motels is their proshi- uh, prokisimily… um. Crappy motels are really close to bars,” Sam says. He waves his hand, sloshing tequila across the bar, and the blonde with big hair and too much lipstick giggles. It’s irritating, and nothing like Dean, and that’s what he wants so Sam leans closer to her, brushes his lips across skin that tastes like makeup. She giggles again, her hair tickling his face and smelling like cigarettes and perfume.

“So you’re staying at the Cozy Inn?” she says, sliding off her stool and onto his lap, pressing herself against him.

She’s soft and yielding, pliant and completely wrong but the alternative is Dean and the Mark and alcohol and sulfur, so she’s the right choice, with breasts and lipstick and alcohol and perfume.

“With my brother. And I could really use a break from him.” Sam’s guts twist at that, like he’s being unfair to Dean, but it’s just the truth. “He’s a bit of an ass.” He doesn’t feel bad for saying it. He throws back his tequila, feels the burn down his throat and the heat in his stomach. He doesn’t feel bad.

“Lemme guess: older, right?” She wriggles on his lap, ass pressing against his dick, and Sam wraps an arm around her waist, holding her close. “Older brothers are the _worst.”_

“Especially if you’ve ever fucked up, even once. Never let it go.” He shouldn’t be talking about this, about Dean, but he can’t remember why. It’s lost in a fuzzy mess of alcohol and arousal.

She giggles again. “Oh, for sure. Last time I fell off the wagon, my brother told me he was done. But life’s more fun now!”

 _What the hell._ “To falling off the wagon,” Sam says. He leans down, presses his lips to hers, ignores the slippery feel and waxy taste of her lipstick in favor of pulling her hips hard against him while her tongue glides softly against his. She moans into his mouth, grinding against his dick and tangling her hands in his hair. Strands catch on her rings, pinpricks of pain teasing at memories he tries to keep locked down.

“Hey!”

They break apart, look over at the bartender.

“Settle up and get a room.”

Sam pulls out his wallet, presses a too-large wad of bills into the man’s hand, and follows the woman outside. She leans up against him, rubbing her body on his like a cat in heat, and whispers in his ear, “Wanna come fall off the wagon with me?” and it sounds like the best idea he’s heard in… years, maybe.

***

His head aches and he can’t stop shivering.

 _Too soft touches from too small hands, too long nails scraping down his back._

Flashes of memory play through Sam’s head. He has to get dressed— _clothes pulled off so fast, buttons torn from his shirt—_ and he finds his shirt, soft flannel holding the scent of booze and cigarettes and the woman’s cheap perfume. His jeans are crumpled in the corner, and he has to tiptoe around shoes and lace and silk, her bedroom a minefield of lingerie and leather skirts.

 _Breathy moans and her breasts heavy in his hands, wet heat between her legs pressing against his crotch and her hair in his mouth. She’s laughing, says wait, you want some? And he tries to say no but it comes out as yes._

He can’t find his boxer-briefs. His shoes are in the living room, one stuck in a potted tree and the other under the coffee table. He pulls them on, hates the feel of boots without socks but he needs to leave, _now,_ before she wakes up and makes the night real.

 _It hits his sinuses and_ burns, _and she laughs again, bends over the lines and Sam sits back as a surge of power blows through him, almost as good as the blood and without the heavy weight of sin, and Sam gets it now, why she keeps laughing and giggling, and he grabs her, thrusts inside, and it’s all good._

He hears noises coming from her bedroom, but he’s gone, out the door and squinting in the sunlight, running back to the motel and his brother and the mess their life has become.

Dean’s asleep, a pile of empty beer bottles beside his bed, but Sam’s gotten good at ignoring Dean’s drinking, just needs to get to the shower and let the water pound away the memories.

When he gets out of the shower, Dean is gone. There’s a plate of toast sitting on clean, folded clothes set on Sam’s unused bed.

***

“Just taking the edge off.”

“I’m surprised you have any edges left.”

This is new. Castiel usually isn’t here for these moments, doesn’t know yet that it’s pointless to talk to Dean when he’s drunk— _he’s always drunk—_ and Sam peeks into the bunker’s kitchen, curious how Dean will react if it’s _Cas_ and not him.

“Fuck off, Cas. I can handle myself.”

No different, then. Sam tries to drag himself away from the scene, but he can’t leave his brother and he doesn’t want to leave Castiel, needs to stay near them, and this is a good distraction from the baggie of powder stuffed in the bottom of his duffle and _fuck_ the last thing they need is another addiction around here but at least it’s better than dreaming of Dean’s sulfur-tainted blood and cum, so really he’s helping.

Sam giggles, high and hysterical, and Dean and Castiel turn to him. Castiel frowns, but Dean’s moving faster, closes in and pushes him out of the kitchen, pressing him against the wall.

“Finally come around for another hit?” Dean’s breath is hot on his ear, smells like whiskey and bacon, and Sam struggles not to fall to his knees in the hall. Dean holds him up, whispers in his ear, “How do you want it Sammy? Straight from the vein, or—”

“Dean!” Castiel’s shout distracts Dean, draws his attention away long enough for Sam to break free, running back through the halls and locking himself in his room.

Sam upends his duffle on the bed, shaking out books and knives and old socks and _there, it’s there_ the coke he picked up on their last hunt, white and innocent and it can keep him sane enough to stay off his brother’s dick. His hands shake too much to make neat lines, but a mound in his palm works just as well, and it’s all good.

The rush of power isn’t as intense, is weaker every time he uses, and Sam spills more of the drug into his hand. It burns in his sinuses, sets his skull buzzing again, and it’s almost almost almost enough. He licks the residue from his hand, bitter vinegar taste exploding on his tongue, and _wish it was sulfur and De…_

***

“I don’t understand this.”

Sam cracks his eyes open. Castiel’s face hovers over him, too-close like he always is, and Sam closes his eyes with a groan. His head, his whole body really, is aching, and his nose feels stuffy. His skin is shrunken, too tight across his back, and hot and feverish.

“What don’t you understand?”

“I don’t understand why you are destroying yourself.”

“Why not? I’ve been self-destructing as long as you’ve known me, haven’t I?”

The mattress dips, and a body is pressed against Sam’s side, arm slung over his chest. Castiel pulls him close, runs his hand up and down his arm, stroking and petting, and Sam lets himself relax for a few seconds _so long since he’s felt tenderness_ before pushing away. Castiel is frowning at him, the I-don’t-understand-humans frown which is better than the I’m-disappointed-by-you frown that Sam has seen too many times.

Sam sighs. “Look, it’s not big deal, right? Dean’s half-demon, I’m a demon blood junkie, and I’m just… I’m trying to deal. And not do too many things that’ll make Dean wanna punch me when we get rid of the Mark.”

“You are not ‘dealing,’” Cas says. “You are _destroying_ yourself. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

He’s tired, so tired. Everything feels heavy, lead weights strapped to his joints and pressing him into the hard mattress _I should just sleep in Dean’s bed_ and Castiel is there and worried, so Sam rolls toward him. He folds himself smaller than physics allows, tucking himself against Cas, and the angel’s hand hesitantly reaches out, strokes his hair and soothes the heat in his head and skin. His knees are digging into Castiel’s side, but Cas doesn’t seem to care, doesn’t try to shift away, and Sam breaks, shoulders heaving in silent, dry sobs.

He falls asleep, true sleep without drugs or drink, and when he wakes Castiel is gone and there’s a plate of toast on the dresser.

***

“Fuck, Sam, I’m not a damn alcoholic.”

 _Yes, you are, but it’s okay._

“Just taking the edge off.”

 _The edge is fucking gone, but it’s okay._

“I can handle myself, Sam, always have.”

 _You’re not handling anything now, but it’s okay._

“You’re no fun like this.”

Dean kicks him, but it’s okay. He barely feels it, butterfly kisses from a steel-toed boot, and it’s okay. He’s drifting, the ceiling swirling about like he’s spinning, and it’s okay. Dean kicks him again, and he hears a crack from his ribs but it doesn’t hurt – it’s okay.

“Fucking junkie.”

Dean’s voice swims through the air like an eel wriggling through water and “it’s okay.”

“Nothing’s okay!” Dean’s glass hits with wall above him, and pieces of it fall on him like glittering stardust, leaving tiny red blossoms and drops of whiskey that burn on his skin.

Sam smiles at Dean, holds out his hand. _I love you and it’s okay._ Dean’s anger is rolling through him, filling the room with twisting blades, and it’ll hurt but “it’s okay, Dean, everything’s okay.”

Dean makes a frustrated sound, and there’s skin pressed against him, pressing shards of glass between them and into them, and it’s okay. He runs his hand over Dean’s chest, fingers catching and tearing on bits of glass, drags his bloody hand to his mouth and tastes the mixture of himself and Dean, coppery-bright and sulfur-dark, and it’s okay. More than okay.

Euphoria doesn’t do it justice, but it’s the best word he knows, tastes like coconut in his head.

Dean is pushing and tugging him into position, fingers probing inside, and it feels like it’s happening to someone else and it’s okay. Pain, but it doesn’t feel like him, and his brother moving inside him, hot and thick and the only thing that’s felt real in “ages and ages, Dean, are we real?”

“Shuddup, Sammy,” panted hot and wet against his neck, then teeth biting his shoulder and a wave of pleasure washes through him and he feels Dean spilling inside him, hot pulses and _fuck, he feels the sulfur everywhere_ and it’s okay.

It’s okay.

***

It’s not okay.

***

He can’t stay anymore, not with the Mark making Dean delicious is so many ways, none of them good. Sam slips out of bed, wincing when his foot lands on the needle, shattering plastic and pricking his sole. It felt good, not energizing and powerful like the coke, but soft and floating, and if he can just stay away from Dean it’ll be enough.

He wants to take a motorcycle from the garage, so he does, slinging his duffle over his shoulder and riding fast, as far as he can get. Hours of darkness, and he’s riding into the sun when it rises, rides until the tank is empty, and fills it again and again, and the sun sets behind him and he keeps riding. He gets a room in a motel that may have had color once, but has turned all grime-gray. The surfaces feel sticky, but there’s a skinny man with stringy hair and bad skin standing just out of reach of the flickering streetlights and Sam has a wad of cash in his pocket that the man is happy to take.

***

It’s a nice routine. Sam spends his nights breaking into pharmacies and clinics, taking syringes and rubber tubing. His conscience makes him leave cash behind, so his evenings are spent in seedy bars, hustling drunk kids at pool and drunk men at arm wrestling. His days…

He spends his days floating.

***

There’s a plate of toast on the nightstand. And everything’s okay, and nothing will be okay again, and he wraps the tubing around his arm, inserts a needle into the vein, and floats away.

***

He wakes up with vomit in his mouth, running down his cheek and pooling under his head. Cool fingers press against his forehead, electricity running blue-white through his veins. Sam gasps, burns, and bites his tongue to hold in the scream of pain that rises in his throat as his head clears for the first time in weeks.

There’s an ancient sadness in the angel’s eyes. It fills Sam with shame, and he tries to apologize _weak, I’m always so weak,_ but Castiel shakes his head, won’t listen, wrinkles his nose as he picks Sam up like a kitten and carries him to the shower.

There’s no curtain, and that hasn’t bothered Sam before but he can’t look at Cas now, can’t face the sadness and sympathy _pity_ in his eyes. He just climbs into the tub, turns the water on and lets it rinse over him, clothes and all.

Hands in his hair, and suds running down his face and stinging his eyes, and Sam turns, laughs to see Castiel behind him, shampoo lathered in his hands and water running down his trenchcoat.

“This would be easier if you bent down.”

“I can wash my own hair, you know.”

“Then why is it so…”

“Just because I can doesn’t mean I do.”

Castiel is silent, considering. Then… “This would be easier if you bent down.”

And Sam does.

Cas feeds him toast before taking him back to the bunker and Dean.

***

But Dean’s not there, just a note left under the Impala’s keys.

***

Sam finds Dean in a bar, unsurprisingly. Dean is sober, and Sam can see the shards of his brother’s heart in his eyes, and for the first time in… ever, Sam knows what to say.

“It’s okay, Dean.”

Dean swallows, hard. “Close your eyes, Sammy.”

And Sam does. And it’s okay.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, my head-canon is that Sam & Dean retire from hunting and go cuddle puppies and kittens for the rest of their lives. Cas too.


End file.
